To Infinity and Beyond
by saunatonttu
Summary: Not all endings are definite. 10051. T for implied sexual themes and stuff.


**A/N: I'm not entirely sure if I'm happy with this piece, but I love the idea I initially had for it. Review if you want to; my 10051 is getting rusty again.**

**.to infinity and beyond.**

_I'm a fine-tuned supersonic speed machine_

_got a sunroof top and a gangster lead_

_._

_._

_._

_Come on now, what are you waiting for, for, for? _

_._

_._

_._

When he wakes up from his dreamless sleep that could have (should have) lasted longer, he wishes he hadn't woken up. It's _sweltering_, and even his sweat drops are sweating.

It's fucking crazy to go on a road trip in Italy during the summer season, he should have remembered that – and he had, he remembers, but...

He looks at his left, at the shirtless person whose driving license should have been taken from him a long, long time ago.

Shouichi groans when a sharp turn to the right causes his side to collide with the passenger door.

"Oh, you woke up," Byakuran notes, sounding awfully cheerful for someone who's bathing in the heat of the car whose air conditioning is faulty at best.

Shouichi hates him a little for that, too.

"Good morning, sunshine~!" Byakuran declares in Italian, eyes trailing over to Shouichi's sweaty form instead of staying where they should – the road, that is, and Shouichi wonders how come they're both still _alive._

"Don't," Shouichi merely groans back in the same tongue as he pulls himself back up and sweeps his bangs off his damp forehead. "And do you even know what speed limits are?"

"They're hindrances. I'll drive as fast as I want."

There's that selfishness Shouichi knows and hates.

"You'll be the death of both of us one day," he says wearily – he has said this a thousand times, and it hits a little too close to home but it is still _true._

Byakuran's lips quirk up into a wider smile, just like back in their university days.

They're twenty-seven and they're far too old for road trips such as this, but they're still on it because sometimes you just gotta feel young again.

And sometimes you just gotta forget all the things that keep fucking you over.

…

They're twenty-seven, and they're not supposed to be doing this kind of early-twenties stuff that belongs to the wild and the young, the carefree and the happy.

(Except that this isn't about being carefree, nor about being young nor happy.)

But they're on the run, and it doesn't really matter that they're too old for society's standards.

Since when has Byakuran ever really cared for those, anyway?

Shouichi takes a deep breath of the Italian night air into his lungs as he leans his back on the door of the Ferrari that he's not convinced of belonging to Byakuran.

It's cold, shockingly so considering the heat of the day, but he doesn't mind as he waits for Byakuran, one hand protectively holding a bottle of wine he thinks is too fancy for this kind of trip.

It's too fancy, too refined, and it does not suit their runaway trip, but Byakuran insists, and Shouichi can't – won't – argue.

So there he is, with the bottle of red wine that reminds him of restaurants and meetings that are long gone, of war, of days that he woke up with a sense of dreadful loss.

He waits for Byakuran to emerge from the gas station – and this, too, is familiar, he thinks, as he has _always_ been waiting (_wanting_) for the other.

And then Byakuran comes, white hair tousled up and his abdomen still free of shirt, with a bag of liquor and wine and snacks and a smile that is more blinding than the fluorescent lights of the lampposts.

"Yo," Byakuran says, smoothly as always, and throws a chocolate bar at him.

Shouichi catches it clumsily, nearly dropping the bottle of wine. "Fuck- Don't do that," he curses.

Byakuran laughs at him, just like best (and _most terrible_, Shouichi's mind adds) friends do. "You're so skilled with computers and robots, but you can't even catch that, Shou-chan."

"Fuck off," Shouichi says, tired of Byakuran's teasing winks and gleaming eyes. Yeah, sure, those made his stomach flutter back in university, but that was a _long_ time ago.

Byakuran laughs again as he slings an arm over Shouichi's shoulders, he too leaning against the door of his (?) car, and puts the plastic bag down before taking the bottle of wine from Shouichi.

"A sharp sound, and the bottle has been uncorked.

"To the best years of our lives," Byakuran says solemnly, holding the bottle up as he tilts his head and purple eyes stare up at the moon that looms over them in the sky littered with starlight.

And, there is that damn flutter in Shouichi's stomach again, the one that has always made him weak and vulnerable in so many ways.

Byakuran takes the first sip from the bottle. Shouichi stares, eyes half-lidded, as Byakuran's Adam's apple bobs as Byakuran swallows down the wine.

It's the wrong way to drin wine, but who cares whether Byakuran tastes the invigorating taste of red wine with his tongue or not.

Byakuran gives the bottle to Shouichi, licking off the rest of the wine from his lips, purple eyes moving to Shouichi expectantly.

It's 11 pm, and stars are twinkling and so are those eyes.

Shouichi pretends he doesn't notice – pretends that he's a little more straight than he actually is.

(Pretends that he's not happy at all with Byakuran's return and this runaway trip.)

"To the best years of our lives," Shouichi repeats Byakuran's words.

(_and he wonders, just for a moment, if they both mean the same years, same moments, same life_)

And then he takes a gulp of wine, the slight burn from the drink itching at his throat in a good way.

It tastes like broken dreams and past friendships and _bitter _like his persona.

Shouichi finds that while he doesn't like the taste, it's the perfect fix for him.

(And he doesn't look when Byakuran looks at him. Not because he's embarrassed, but because it's still difficult to meet those brilliantly violet eyes directly, after everything.)

…

It's past noon when he wakes up with a headache that would kill even a titan or two, and the first thing that leaves his mouth is a groan as the irritating sunlight teases his eyes.

"Ow, ow, ow-" is the incomprehensible flood of words that happens next, and then he pulls himself up from the dirty, alcohol-splattered rug.

...and then the fun _what the fuck did I do last night_ -game begins.

He looks around himself, down at himself and the lack of pants and shirt concerns him and _is that a bruise on his thigh._

He wonders – and his headache throbs painfully against his skull in response, as if saying _it's better if you don't know._

Shouichi never takes these mental warnings for granted because holy _shit _he should have listened to them before-

He shakes his head, roughly, as he climbs up to his feet, nearly tripping as he tries to make his way into the bathroom.

Byakuran is already there – much to Shouichi's utter surprise.

Byakuran turns his head slightly, offering a small wave as a greeting, a toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth.

Shouichi's attention, though, goes straight to the large purple-black bruise on Byakuran's face, inching down from the side of one of those violet eyes and down to the corner of thin lips.

_What the fuck did we do last night_ seems even more important _now._

Then, Byakuran grins – mouth full of toothbrush and -paste – and says, voice muffled, "Youwe a mesh, Shwou-chwan."

Shouichi looks at Byakuran – looks at those dull violet eyes that look dead in the morning and that mop of hair that can't be tamed.

And, for a moment, he wonders what it would feel like to run his fingers through those strands of hair.

He banishes that thought immediately.

Byakuran is right. He _is_ a mess – a train wreck, or a car on a collision course, or a person that goes straight from a car accident to a plane crash.

"You are too," he says seriously, hand evening out his own bush of irritatingly bright hair as he walks over to the sink and picks up his own Mickey Mouse toothbrush.

(Shut up, Walt Disney was a genius. He _will_ fight you for this.)

…

The trip goes on, and the stereo's at full volume. Marianas Trench is playing, and Shouichi nods his head to the beat, fingers tapping on the fabric of his worn-out jeans.

It's hot, hotter than yesterday, but they don't care, and they hit the road, Byakuran still illegally fast and Shouichi still wondering why he hasn't made a will yet.

His head still hurts, and his lips taste sour even after washing his teeth five times (_so much hangover regret_), but there's a smile on his lips as he inwardly rocks to Marianas Trench because _wow this is sort of fitting._

He can see Byakuran's bruised-up face from the corner of his eye, and he can also see the tilt of those lips, that tantalizing curve that is irritatingly charming and cunning at the same time.

Shouichi stares at that face, and he remembers-

He remembers the awful things.

He stares at that purple-black patch of skin, but he doesn't really see it as much as he sees Tsunayoshi's flames enveloping Byakuran within their tight hold and the way Tsunayoshi's arm moves back for the last punch.

He can still hear the cracks that come from Byakuran's dislocated jaw

And he thinks about his own self, his greatest idiocy of caring.

He thinks a million other things, but then his head starts to hurt, as if telling him to stop and take a moment _'cause Shouichi dear you think too much and sometimes you just gotta let go. _

He takes a sip from his can of beer, and almost gags in the strong and bitter taste of alcohol.

Then he takes another gulp.

And life goes on.

…

"You know, taking our credit cards with us was a big mistake."

Byakuran lifts his head, craning his neck until he managed to see a half-naked, very drunk Shouichi sitting on the other side of the king-sized bed, dark green eyes on him.

Shou-chan has always been a very clear-minded drunk, even though some inhibitions just evaporated when Shouichi got enough alcohol in his system.

It's a fun game, really – trying to see how much Shou-chan could take it.

Even now, when technically they're on the run from the Vongola, it is amusing.

"Yeah?" Byakuran lilts, and his vision blurs. Maybe he's a bit drunk too.

"Tsunayoshi-kun will find us."

Ah, there it is, that name both of them avoid talking about, but apparently Shouichi is even more drunk than Byakuran, and that's saying a lot.

"Nah," Byakuran says eventually as he props himself up with his elbows and looks at Shouichi contemplatively, his lips for once not curled up.

"A little bit of thrill is good, isn't it, Shou-chan?"

He rolls over to Shouichi, hand reaching out until it touches the flushed cheek. Shouichi doesn't move away; instead, he looks down at Byakuran who has risen into a sitting position, knees bent and legs crossed, leaving nothing hidden from Shouichi's gaze.

"I've had my fair share of thrill already, Byakuran-san," Shouichi whispered in return, a terrible sadness flashing in the depths of greenery of his eyes.

It fascinates Byakuran and the world-weary monster inside him.

"C'mon," Byakuran says – whines, really. "Shou-chan, you sound like an old man~."

_And whose fault is that,_ Shouichi's eyes ask him, but without anger and resentment, before his lips part to speak.

No voice ever comes out; lips already covered by other ones.

…

Next day, they're under the scathing heat again, neither mentioning the bruises and kiss marks that mark their bodies, though Byakuran listlessly watches and tries to spot them through Shouichi's white T-shirt.

Shouichi is driving, this time; Byakuran doesn't mind, though the lack of speed is lulling him back to sleep.

He blinks, twice, before his eyes follow the trail of sweat down the side of Shouichi's neck and stop at the dark purplish mark that darkens Shouichi's pale skin considerably.

Byakuran thinks back to last night, of which he has _some_ memories – mostly of the scorching heat in his loins, of Shou-chan's gasping and wheezing breaths, of...

"_Byakuran-san."_

Of breathed out names, of tears prickling at green eyes as they gazed up at him.

Byakuran closes his eyes as the headache pricks at his temples – thud, thud, _thud_ – and he turns up the volume of the radio.

Oh, Soul Asylum, he thinks with a hum of approval as he leans back against the seat, lazily stretching his arms over his head, his body slouched and aching from places he has never ached before.

_Somehow I'm neither here nor there..._

.

.

Thirty-four hours later at a country-side town, Byakuran sees a silhouette he knows for sure belongs to one of Sawada Tsunayoshi's guardians.

And then the silhouette becomes more clear – Shouichi's shoulders tense up, and Byakuran knows he sees that familiar brand of cigarettes Gokudera Hayato exclusively uses.

"We have to go," Shouichi mutters inaudibly, his hand clutching onto Byakuran's with strength Byakuran didn't know he possessed before tugging him along, quickly trying to get deeper into the crowd of people.

Byakuran doesn't ask _why_; he doesn't ask for Shouichi's reasons for any of this, for this road trip, for going along with Byakuran's desires.

He thinks he knows, but the monster inside him grins – _yeah right, like Shou-chan cares what happens to me._

Makeshift memories, makeshift friendship, and perhaps this too is just make-believe.

But the warmth of Shouichi's hand as the redhead forcibly tugs him forward spreads, and Byakuran's eyes soften, an indiscernible emotion flickering in the violet pools.

…

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

Shouichi throws the credit cards into the sea as soon as he's done cutting them in halves and cutting the halves in halves.

His hands shake, tremble with worry, and the scissors slip from his fingers, but he doesn't get down to pick it up. Instead, he stares at the sea and the setting sun in the horizon, at the red-yellow-orange painting that sheds its last light upon them.

He takes a deep breath in, and eases it back out through his nostrils.

It should be fine. It should be fine now.

"Let's go," he tells Byakuran, who is standing by his side, his legs knee-deep in the salt water.

Byakuran doesn't respond, violet eyes focused on the sunset that reflects on the sea surface, and Shouichi frowns – anxiety already bubbling in his stomach – and he opens his mouth to complain, but suddenly he stops.

Byakuran is _smiling – _not a fake smile, but a genuine one filled with something Shouichi wants to mistake for peacefulness.

He has noticed this since long time ago, but Byakuran's (genuine) smiles bring light to where it's cold – and that smile had once brightened his world til it burned in flames.

He swallows, thickly, and the heat that dances along his skin makes him turn his gaze away. An old feeling – a withered, swept-under-the-rug kind of feeling – tickles and pulls at his heartstrings, and he can already feel himself sighing and _yeah, I guess I'm going down this road again._

…

Shouichi throws his cellphone off at a random gas station before climbing back into the car.

It's Byakuran's turn to drive again, and Shouichi quickly digs out some motion sickness bags he knows he will need in the coming ten minutes.

(To be fair, it's not because of Byakuran's driving; it's half the reason, though.)

Byakuran doesn't betray his expectations and hits the road without respecting the local speed limits.

(Does Italy even _have_ speed limits, that's what Shouichi wants to know.)

They're silent – well, Byakuran is, while Shouichi pukes into the bag, face flushed and eyes glossy as he curses the Italian seafood in his head while dedicating a part of his thoughts to Byakuran's insane driving _while_ appreciating Byakuran's connections with family restaurants.

Soon enough, Shouichi lifts himself up and slouches against the seat while breathing sluggishly, eyes closed even as Byakuran's hand comes to take his, which makes something recoil inside Shouichi again.

"Shou-chan," Byakuran whispers, a sound like an old friend's greeting, and Shouichi's eyes prickle with sudden tears.

…

"Do you remember-"

"-you were so stuffy back then, Shou-chan-"

They talk over each other's words, something anxious fluttering between them as their voices mingle and drown the words until there's only silence.

Shouichi stares out from the window, at the countryside of Italy, and if there's a perfect moment, it'd be this – Byakuran holding his hand carefully, unsurely almost, while old music from their university times plays in the radio.

Shouichi takes a deep breath in – he can still smell the sea, even though they're already far away from it, and the scent fills his nostrils and mind, but then he smells vanilla too and...

Byakuran's arm drapes around his waist, and _pulls_.

"Eh-"

Byakuran's nose dives into Shouichi's mess of hair, poking around affectionately, and damn if it doesn't make Shouichi's heart race.

(He tries to think of maths, tries to think of equations and integrals, but for once his mind fails him.)

Fingers entwined with Byakuran's, Shouichi gasps as his head dives down and his chin collides with Byakuran's collarbone before he gives in and nuzzles into the warmth.

The heat coils around him, makes him unstable and hot all over until he almost can't stand it – and it's not the heat of Italy's sun, though he _wishes_ it to be the case.

(Maybe, he thinks, it's the warmth that he has forgotten, the warmth that he had forsaken for the sake of greater good.)

He can feel the tender curve of Byakuran's lips against his forehead (_when and why were they there_) and the words Byakuran presses against his skin make all the difference in the world to him.

(_Maybe we're not hopeless, after all._)


End file.
